The phenomenon of time moving faster seems to happen as we get older. My mom has mentioned on several occasions that every year seems to go by faster and faster the older she gets. Lately I've been noticing it, too. I remember as a child time moved very slowly. January was a cold, grey, dreary month that seemed to last forever, and summer vacation went on and on and on. When September would arrive and I could finally go back to school, it was almost a relief: I'd "been there, done that" with every bit of summer fun I could, and by the end of August, I was getting bored. Today, I close my eyes and a week has passed, a month. Then it's the Holidays again. Didn't I just put all these Christmas tree lights and decorations away yesterday? I thought so.

I try not to let it depress me, though something seems determined to. I get that niggling little voice in the back of my head saying, "You've wasted it. It's gone now. It's over." "It" being my life. Then I get scared. I had a lot of plans, ideas and dreams when I was a teenager. I figured I had a lot of time to accomplish my lofty goals: get a MA and soon after a Ph.D., get married, have kids, write bestselling novels, learn to play the piano, and Lord knows what else. Yeah, I dreamt big! But, here I am, twenty years later, with nothing to show for my 38 years on the planet: no husband, no children, no additional degrees. Nothing. When I leave this earth, there will be nothing left behind with my unique mark on it. I guess in the grand scheme of things, that doesn't really matter, but right here, right now, it does. I want to have something to leave behind. Something beautiful, spectacular, amazing. I just don't know if I've got the time.